


please teach me gently how to breathe

by JourEtNuit



Series: on the other side of this wide night [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Hate Sex, Panic Attacks, Post Season 2, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-05-03 06:58:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5281130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JourEtNuit/pseuds/JourEtNuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One month after Clarke left Camp Jaha, she's barely surviving on her own. She ends up forced to spend the winter in a small trikru village, where she starts to heal - and then, Lexa comes back into her life.</p><p>This is the story of Clarke's recovery, and how Lexa fits in it. It's not pretty, it's not easy, but it might just be worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will update the tags as needed, so you should probably check those. 
> 
> The title is from the song "Shelter", by the XX.
> 
> Again, I am not a native speaker, so feel free to let me know if you spot any mistakes! Also, fair warning, some of the things Grounders do in this fic might not be described very accurately...

This is how Clarke Griffin dies: with her mouth full of snow, and the hazy, foggy thought that when she closes her eyes this time, she won't ever wake up.

Except she doesn't die on this cold winter morning, stomach empty and bones made brittle by exhaustion. A hunting party from a neighboring village happens to be nearby, and they find her, unconscious and already half buried in fresh snow, under the big oak where she fell for the last time.

And so Clarke does wake up, disoriented and weak, and she's not in heaven or in hell, but in a small dark room that smells of wood fire and salted fish.

She closes her eyes again and doesn't have the energy to cry, but she feels no relief about the fact that she's alive, just a sickening wave of disappointment.

 

 

It takes her a full month to recover, and she stays in the village while her body heals. She has nowhere else to go.

The room she's been allotted, she learns after a few days of feverish sleep, is part of a modest wooden hut that belongs to the woman who found her, a grouchy old warrior named Aquia. Her hostess doesn't seem to like her very much, and sometimes Clarke wonders why she's been allowed to stay, why these people care about her survival at all when _she_ doesn't – but she never asks, and nobody tells her.

The Grounders are well aware of who she is – she doesn't even have to tell them her name. But they don't comment on the fact that the Sky People's fearless leader was found half-dead so far away from her camp, in the first frost of winter, and for that, Clarke is grateful.

Well, most of them don't comment on it. Aquia has no qualms letting Clarke know exactly how idiotic of an idea it was to run away on her own just before winter. She grumbles about it in English while bringing Clarke healing potions or clear broth, and spits acidic words in Trigedasleng that are probably insulting Clarke's brain, Clarke's judgment, and her overall worth as a human being, but Clarke can't find it in herself to mind.

Truth is, she prefers Aquia's constant annoyed muttering to the rest of the villagers' impassible silence. It distracts her, and god knows she needs it.

 

 

The village is very small – maybe sixty people, and that's counting the children. They don't seem to have a leader, the adults convening in the big building in the central square every time an important decision has to be made. Clarke is a bit baffled at first, but she supposes it's as good an organization as any.

Aquia takes her to her first village meeting about two weeks after she was brought in, when she's finally strong enough to walk on her own.

There, under the scrutiny of dark eyes and imperturbable faces, Clarke is asked about her _skills_. They want to know how she can contribute. Winters are harsh, they say, we need everyone's help if we want to survive. She feels dark laughter bubble in her chest, and the acrid taste of bile in her mouth. Is genocide an acceptable skill, she wonders.

There's a small voice inside her head whispering about medicine, but she shuts it down. She doesn't want anything from her past, she's no healer and certainly no leader anymore, she just wants to be Clarke.

“I have no skills”, she says to the assembled Grounders. “But I understand that I need to help out, and I'm willing to learn.”

A few people nod, some look at her with disbelief. A young man is smiling at her reassuringly. Aquia grunts something in Trigedasleng that Clarke is pretty sure means “useless”. All in all, they seem to accept her answer.

And so Clarke is put to work.

 

 

The first week she works inside, still too weak to bear the brunt of winter's icy winds. The morning after the village meeting, Clarke is sitting in Aquia 's common room, on the bench near the fire, lost in thoughts, when the old woman comes in through the heavy front door, throws some fishing nets on her lap, and settles besides her. She slaps a needle in Clarke's palm, and, without further explanation, she starts working on a ragged hole in one of the nets.

Clarke looks at the needle in her hand, then at the net draped over her knees. She has no idea what she's supposed to do. Her only experience with needle work is stitches, and she has a feeling this won't be applicable to mending fishing nets.

Aquia sighs and lightly slaps the back of Clarke's head, catching her attention.

“Watch. Learn”, she grumbles. “Make yourself useful.”

So Clarke watches her. Aquia's deft fingers work incredibly fast on the strings, tying knots and looping lines, and it's fascinating to observe. She looses herself in the easy rhythm, until Aquia stops and swiftly hits her on the head again.

“Your turn”, she says, pointing at Clarke's own abandoned net.

 

 

It takes her three days to mend her fishing net.

Aquia's teaching style consists mostly of exasperated swats to the back of her head when Clarke gets distracted, and her usual stubborn silence, but Clarke feels oddly at ease with her during those long and sometimes frustrating hours. Maybe it's because Aquia patiently shows her, time and time again, how to hold her needle and how to loop the lines to form a perfect shape, correcting her fingers meticulously until Clarke finds the right gesture on her own. Maybe it's because when she successfully repairs the first of many holes, there's almost the shadow of a smile on Aquia's lips.

When Clarke presents the fishing net for inspection, and after Aquia nods, quietly appraising her work, she feels a strange sort of peace come to her. It feels good to fix something instead of destroying it.

 

 

She asks Aquia if she can go to the river and try out the newly repaired fishing net and the old woman laughs for a good five minutes, a raucous, gravelly sound that fills the small hut.

“You would have to break the ice first, sky girl.”

Clarke lets embarrassment wash over her, and then she laughs too. She feels light and young, unexpectedly, in a way that she hasn't felt since she landed on this ravaged earth, since her year in solitary confinement, since her father's death. And then, as painful as a punch to the gut, guilt is congealing in her stomach, obstructing her throat like a thick coat of ice, paralyzing, stifling.

It's the first time she's laughed since she left Camp Jaha, and she knows, with a steely sort of resignation, that she doesn't deserve even this ghost of happiness.

 

 

Clarke has learned her lesson: you don't fish with nets in the winter. But she still wants to know how fish finds its way to her plate four days a week, and she starts asking questions. After a few days of pestering Aquia and every Grounder she encounters, the young man who smiled at her during her first village meeting agrees to take her ice-fishing. His name is Abel, and he looks to be just a few years older than her. His dark curly hair and boyish smile remind her briefly of Bellamy – before she resolutely swallows back the memories.

Abel is a patient teacher – he shows her how to choose her spot on the river, where the ice is thick enough to support their weight, how to cut a hole with the impressive saw he brought with them, how to put the bait and how to jiggle the rod ever so lightly to catch the fish's attention without scaring it off. There is so much to learn, and Clarke has millions of questions that he answers eagerly. She feels herself buzzing with something close to excitement when they're finally done with the preparations.

And then, comes the waiting part. Immobile, in the cold wind, Clarke is reminded of that time, not so long ago, when she was wandering in the woods on her own, barely surviving, until she fell in the snow and found herself too weak to get up.

She remembers dying – she remembers death tainting her hands too, and if she keeps shuddering, it's not really because of the cold.

They catch three fish eventually, and Clarke pulls one out of the water herself. She's gazing at the animals convulsing on the ice, when Abel presents her with a knife ; she recoils, taken aback. He seems to realize that she has never gutted a fish before and he smirks, not without kindness, before showing her how to do it.

(Clarke looks at his knife tearing into the fish scales, and she shakes and shakes and she knows she won't be able to do that for a very long time.)

 

 

A week later, she's doing woodwork with Aquia in the central hut when words come that the Commander has been spotted nearby, and is expected to reach the village before sunset.

She lets the chisel and hammer fall from her hands, in shock, and the clanging of the metal tools on the ground draw Aquia's attention to her.

“What is the matter with you, sky girl?”

“I don't want to see her. I _can't_ see her.”

Aquia raises an eyebrow. Clarke's hands feel clammy, her heart is beating erratically in her chest, anxiety and anger are blending under her skin in a dangerous mix threatening to explode. Aquia must notice how agitated she is, because she puts her tools down and gives her a serious look.

“You can go back home, if you wish. The Commander will probably talk to us here. You will most likely be left alone.”

So Clarke rushes back to Aquia's hut, and then into the small room where she sleeps. She sits on the hard mattress, draws her knees close to her chest, arms braced defensively against her shins.

She closes her eyes, and waits and waits and prays that Lexa will just go away and leave her alone.

 

 

She should be used to her prayers not being answered by now, but dread and bitterness still sit heavily in her chest when she hears a firm knock on the hut's main door.

Slowly, she comes out of her room, and goes to open the door. She lives with enough ghosts to know there is no use avoiding them.

Lexa stands on the other side, looking every bit like the last time she saw her, long coat and red sash and black lines under her eyes. There is no blood on her face anymore, but Clarke sees it anyway, dark red splattered across her cheekbones. It's a sight that has been haunting her dreams for two months now.

Lexa looks at her, and there's a hint of stupefaction in the minuscule space between her lips. There's relief too, floating like a shadow on her face when her eyes trail down along Clarke's body from her hair to her boots, like she's making sure that Clarke is whole in front of her.

It makes Clarke's skin crawl, the relief on Lexa's face, because she's anything _but_ whole. So she crosses her arms firmly against her chest, and turns her spine into steel.

“Why are you here?”, she asks, spitting the words around a painfully clenched jaw.

“They told me you were alive, but I had to...”

Lexa doesn't finish her sentence, and Clarke doesn't say anything, lips stubbornly pressed together. Lexa straightens her shoulders, and looks squarely into Clarke's eyes.

“I am glad to find you well, Clarke.”

“I can't say the same, _Commander_.”

Lexa nods silently, face blank of emotions.

“I don't expect anything else.”

Clarke feels anger and frustration burning inside her, and she tightens her arms against her chest. The night has fallen outside, but she can see Aquia waiting quietly like a sentinel a few steps behind Lexa, and the warrior's presence unexpectedly soothes the tension coiling in her body.

“Well, if you know what to expect from me, you won't be surprised that I want you to _get out_.”

“Why have you left your people, Clarke?”, Lexa asks, instead of complying.

“I don't have to explain myself to you.”

“You saved them. And yet, you left them.”

Lexa's words are like bullets exploding in her stomach, they burn and devastate and deafen her ears like gunshots would. She feels sick, and furious that Lexa has the audacity to come and _question_ her like that, when she should be on her knees begging for forgiveness. Not that she intends on forgiving her, ever.

“I told you to get out”, Clarke growls as she takes a step towards Lexa, hands tightened into fists. Lexa doesn't move, and Clarke finds herself so close to her that she can feel Lexa's warm breath on her face.

There's a sudden flash in her mind, of Lexa's lips, Lexa's tongue, Lexa kissing her, all sweet and tender, and Clarke shakes her head, disgusted with herself.

“I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to see you”, she whispers viciously to Lexa, who is staring at her with carefully crafted indifference. “I want you to leave, and to never come back unless you want to die with a knife in your guts.”

“You may hate me, Clarke, but you should not threaten me”, Lexa whispers back, voice dangerous.

“Fuck you”, and Clarke punctuates her words with a brutal push, making a surprised Lexa take a step back.

It feels good, so good, and she raises her fists to push her again, but Lexa is expecting it this time, and catches her wrists before she touches her.

“Enough!”, she orders, and when Clarke struggles she tightens her grip, painfully so. “I said _enough_ , Clarke”, she repeats, sternly, hey eyes flashing with anger.

“Let me go”, Clarke protests furiously, to no avail. Villagers are gathering around the commotion.

“Whatever feelings you have towards me, I am still the Commander of the twelve clans, and you will treat me as such.”

“I don't owe you anything”, Clarke snaps back, and there's hate simmering in her veins with an intensity she's never felt before.

“You live on my land, amongst my people”, Lexa replies. “You owe me respect.”

Clarke grits her teeth but doesn't respond, and after a second Lexa releases her hands. Lexa's face softens then, and she opens her mouth but Clarke has had enough of this conversation, enough of _her_.

She storms off towards the woods just outside the village, without looking back.

 

For a while, she just walks straight ahead, feet tripping on snow-covered roots, barely seeing anything under the moon's timid light. Clarke walks and walks, with no idea where she is going – the rage in her head is muffling every sound around her, every thought in her mind, like fog in the early morning enveloping the forest in a soft hush.

When Clarke feels calmer, she slows down, and finds herself in a small clearing in the woods. She is not dressed for a walk in the night, in the dead of winter, and she shudders violently, hiding her numb fingers in her armpits.

Her breathing is irregular, loud, almost painful, and she concentrates on regulating the flow of air in her lungs. She thinks of looping lines in a fishing net, again and again, of waiting patiently near the fishing rod as the sunlight shimmers on the ice, of the satisfying thump of the hammer hitting the chisel like a beating heart.

She's finally breathing normally again when she notices she's not alone, and she lets out an undignified yelp. Lexa is standing at the edge of the clearing, the end of her coat drenched from snow. Little puffs of white smoke come out of her mouth, and she looks almost like an apparition, in the dark and quiet forest.

“Are you fucking kidding me? You're following me?” Clarke asks, incredulous, between chattering teeth.

“I know you are upset, Clarke. But it is not safe for you to be alone in the woods at night.”

“Since when do you care about my safety?” Clarke bites back, slowly walking towards Lexa like a cat ready to pounce on its prey.

“I've always cared, Clarke”, Lexa says firmly, and Clarke laughs, without humor. It resonates gloomily in the silent forest.

“Really? Is that why you left me to die at Mount Weather? Is that why you left all my friends to die too? Because you _cared_ so much?”

Lexa stays quiet, tilting her head to the side like she's gauging her, like she knows exactly what Clarke has to say and she's just waiting for the end of her reproach. It makes Clarke mad again, but this time, it's a cold, still kind of anger – maybe it's the wintery winds and the deadness of the trees around them that breed it in Clarke. Maybe it was always within her.

She wants to wipe the aloof mask off Lexa's face. She wants to hurt her, she wants to make her beg for mercy, like she desperately begged her not to leave at the foot of the mountain.

Clarke surges forward, and closes her hand around Lexa's throat, so violently that the other girl stumbles back, and finds herself pinned against a tree. Lexa's hands come pulling at Clarke's forearm, instinctively, but Clarke just squeezes her throat tighter, and she discerns fear in Lexa's clear green eyes, but also something like _excitement_.

Lexa's skin is warm against her icy fingers. She can feel the movement of her muscles when Lexa swallows – she can feel her erratic pulse on the side of her throat, and it's entrancing, the sudden feeling of power that ripples in her chest. Clarke presses the whole length of her body against Lexa who shivers, trapped between Clarke and a tree.

“I see you're not fighting back. You like that, Commander?”, Clarke murmurs hotly against Lexa's cheek.

“Clarke, let me go”, Lexa stutters, voice wavering against the pressure of Clarke's hand.

“We both know you could free yourself easily, if you wanted to. I'm not the skilled warrior, here.”

“I do not want to hurt you...”

“Bullshit! You like it, and there's no one around to see us.”

Clarke tightens her hold on Lexa's throat, fingers pressing on her windpipe until Lexa is coughing and gasping for air. Then Clarke releases her, and takes a step back. Lexa is leaning against the tree, cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes shining in the night. Unexpected desire is pooling in her lower stomach at the sight, and she swallows, staring at her.

“Have you thought of me, since you betrayed me?”

“Every day.”

“Did you think about me fucking you?”

“Clarke, I...”

But Clarke silences her with a hand cupping her crotch. Lexa bites her lip, and sends her a heavy look under hooded eyelids.

“What are you doing, Clarke?”

“What does it look like I'm doing?” Clarke answers with a smirk, while she undoes the straps of Lexa's coat.

“You do not have to give me this.”

Clarke scoffs. “I'm not giving you anything. I'm taking.”

And without warning, she pulls Lexa's pants down, along with her underwear, leaving her naked from the waist down in the cold air of the night. Lexa's breath hitches – from arousal or exposure to the cold, Clarke doesn't know, and almost doesn't care.

She trails a finger on Lexa's bare thigh, feeling the goosebumps, and the hard muscle underneath.

“You still haven't said no, Commander. Am I to believe you _do_ want this?”

Lexa closes her eyes, and lets the back of her head hit the rough bark of the tree. Clarke draws patterns on her hip and her stomach, light and teasing.

“You need to tell me you want this, or I'll stop.”

Lexa glares at her but she complies, words hurriedly coming out of her mouth. “I want it.”

“Well then”, and Clarke roughly presses her palm on Lexa's clit. Lexa whimpers, softly, and Clarke's hand slips down to the wetness gathered at the entrance of her sex, teasing for only a moment, before she roughly pushes two fingers inside her.

Lexa closes her eyes again, hands gripping both sides of the tree behind her for support. The sight of her, waiting, offered like a human sacrifice, is almost too much. Clarke feels a deep sort of hunger gnawing at her, replacing the anger in her bones, and she starts fucking Lexa, hard and fast.

It doesn't take long before she has her moaning and squirming, hips rolling to meet her fingers. Their white breathes are mingling in the air around them, the forest is silent and ominous. Clarke wants to devour Lexa, she wants to spit her out, she wants to tear her apart and leave her as broken as she feels. She slams into her, relentlessly, her free hand gripping Lexa's hip, until Lexa catches it with trembling fingers and brings it to her throat instead.

They lock eyes for a long second, never saying a word. Clarke's fingers fit around Lexa's pale throat like they were always meant to be here, and Clarke's fingers work inside her like they were always meant to be there too. It only takes a moment before Lexa is gasping and shaking through her orgasm– and Clarke feels the delightful vibrations of her pleasure in both hands.

 

 

Afterward, Clarke wipes her fingers on her pants as Lexa puts hers back on, and she feels cold and empty like the woods that surround them. Lexa is watching her, still leaning against the tree, too solemn, too still – Clarke can't look at her when she speaks.

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

Lexa pushes herself off the tree and walks to where Clarke is standing, a few steps away from the edge of the forest.

“I cannot give you what you need from me, Clarke. I cannot say I'm sorry, because I don't regret what I did.”

“You should.”

“No”, Lexa counters gently, “I shouldn't. And you shouldn’t regret what you did either.”

Lexa's words, the softness of her tone, feel like a blade cutting her skin open – like the knife tearing into the scales of a fish, scattering guts and fishbones on the immaculate ice – and suddenly there are tears in her eyes, accumulated guilt seeping out of her uncontrollably.

Clarke grits her teeth, ignoring the wetness on her cheeks. “I can't listen to you anymore. Goodbye, Lexa.”

And with that, she starts walking back to the village.

 

 

Aquia is sitting in front of the fire when Clarke comes in, pale and freezing, with dried tears on her face, and what a pathetic vision she must be, if _Aquia's_ first expression is one of worry.

The old warrior takes one good look at her, before she beckons her near the fire, and Clarke kneels in front of the welcomed warmth without a word. Her hands are shaking when she raises them to the flames.

“Did the Commander do something to you?”, Aquia inquires in a low voice, and Clarke _tries_ to talk, but as soon as she opens her mouth she starts crying, like an irrepressible force has finally been set free.

Her shoulders are shaking with each violent sob, she can barely breathe, and then suddenly she feels strong arms around her, and a careful hand on the back of her neck, and it takes her a second to realize that Aquia is holding her.

“You should have left me die”, Clarke manages between two hiccups. “I should be dead, I just want to be dead.”

“Your fight is not over, Clarke”, Aquia mutters back firmly. She presses Clarke harder against her bony shoulders, and Clarke cries and cries for what seems like an eternity.

When she's done, Aquia releases her and wipes her cheeks with her calloused fingers, before getting up. She comes back with fishing nets and sits back on the floor next to Clarke, who looks at her in disbelief.

“Seriously?”, Clarke grumbles, voice hoarse from crying, and Aquia smirks before swiftly slapping the back of her head.

“There's still work to be done, sky girl. Winter is not over yet.”


	2. Chapter 2

It's a month before Lexa comes back. Clarke doesn't think of her once.

Except that's not the truth, is it. Oh, how she wishes it were true – but here are Lexa's eyes, following her everywhere ; she sees them in the ashes, in the dark trees, in the clear ice of the river. At night, when she lies still on her straw mattress, between rough sheets of cotton and underneath the heavy furs keeping her warm, she closes her eyes and there's Lexa's voice in her head, her smell, the feel of her throat against her palm.

Sometimes, when Clarke has grown frustrated enough, she touches herself, trailing cold fingers to her breasts, on to her stomach, and down between her legs, and she allows her mind to recall how _thrilling_ it was, fucking Lexa. When she comes, she puts a fist to her mouth and bites, to stifle any sound.

Afterward, she looks at the angry red marks of her teeth, and she thinks it's what Lexa has done to her heart.

 

 

Once Lexa is gone, life in the village goes on, undisturbed by the Commander's visit, and Clarke is grateful for the endless work still to be done. It helps her keep her thoughts at bay, now that she no longer feels so numb all the time. Aquia, in her gruff yet thoughtful manner, anticipates Clarke's need for constant activity, and decides it's time for her to be taught a new trade.

So Clarke learns to cook.

The first time she steps inside the village's kitchen, where a handful of Grounders prepare the daily meals that they all take collectively in the central building, she feels unexpectedly shy and out of place.

The room is dark and hot with steam, and the strong smell of fermenting meat makes Clarke slightly nauseous. People are milling around, busy like bees in a hive ; nobody is paying attention to her, her eyes are stinging from the smoke. She fidgets for a minute, until a man almost runs into her and notices her presence, curiosity settling in his brown eyes. She has seen him before, his name is Mac. He brought her herbal tea one night, when she first arrived and was too weak to ingest solid food.

“Do you need anything, Clarke of the Sky People?”

Clarke wishes they would drop the incessant reminder that she doesn't belong here, but she doesn't protest. “Aquia sent me to help you”, she says instead.

“This is hardly the place for a leader, sky girl”, he says, somewhat uneasily.

“Good thing I'm not, then.”

Mac laughs, showing his teeth. “What do you know about cooking?” He must see the frown on her face, because he laughs again, and points to a middle-aged woman chopping vegetables in a corner of the room.

“This is Willow. You can go help her.”

Clarke nods, and does as she's told.

 

 

For a few days, Clarke is tasked with cutting various roots and herbs, and bringing them to Mac to make stews and soups, and she's happy enough with the mindless chores. Willow is an agreeable companion of work, though she's by far the most talkative Grounder Clarke has ever met. But her chattering provides a comforting background noise, and Clarke is even able to learn some new words in Trigedasleng.

And then, one day, the hunters bring back a huge cat-like beast, and while everyone in the kitchen is excited by the prospect of fresh meat, Clarke is suddenly transported back a few months ago, to one of the first days at the Dropship, when they had killed and eaten a similar animal. She remembers how not one of them had any idea how to cook meat back then - they had just roasted the thing on the fire, hopping it would be edible. They were all starving at this point anyway, and they didn't care what the food tasted like. Clarke smiles thinly, thinking back on the charred flesh they had all been so grateful to eat, and what the Grounders must have thought of them, wasting good game like that.

Suddenly, her throat tightens, her fingers get slippery with sweat, and she lets the knife fall back on the table. She remembers Finn, how he made sure she didn't have to surrender her wristband to have food, and she can't help but impulsively rub her hands together, like she's trying to wash blood that is no longer there.

And then, she remembers who killed the big black feline in the first place, that day near the Dropship, and her hands start shaking.

It's been so long since she allowed herself to think of Wells. She swallows, she blinks, she stubbornly clenches her jaw – but she can't stop the tears pooling in her eyes, spilling on her cheeks.

But Willow is looking at her worriedly, so Clarke wipes her face and grabs the next basket of vegetables to chop, without a word.

 

 

That night, after dinner, she sits with Aquia near the fire, and she feels the need to talk building in her chest like a relentless wave.

“I lost my best friend”, she says, finally, words tumbling out of her mouth before she can take them back.

Aquia nods but doesn't say anything in response. Clarke looks at the flames and feels cold inside.

“It happened so fast, and then we were pretty much at war, and all I could focus on was surviving, and I...”, she forces herself to take a breath, feeling her voice wavering. “I don't think I even really felt the loss until now.”

Aquia gets up to tend to the fire, still silent, and Clarke watches as she puts another log in the hearth.

“I spent a year hating him, for something he didn't do”, Clarke whispers brokenly. “And then he died, and now I don't know how to think about him without hating myself.”

Her eyes fill with tears again, and when she sniffles, Aquia comes back to sit besides her on the bench and sighs – it's a small, tired sound, and it echoes the weariness in Clarke's heart.

“Peace is the time for a warrior to grieve”, Aquia says, “and to honor those who have fallen.”

She doesn't look at Clarke, but she puts her weathered hand on Clarke's knee, and lets it rest there in a quiet gesture of comfort.

“You need to honor the memory of your dead, sky girl. Only then, will your mind let them rest. ”

 

 

Aquia's words stay with Clarke the following week, while she's cutting turnips and potatoes, or mincing garlic and dried sorrel.

She has so much death on her conscience, how can she even begin to _honor her dead_. She cuts and cuts through the solid flesh of the vegetables, her knife thumping on the wooden surface of the table, and she thinks, just like there is no end to this kitchen work, atoning for her sins will be infinite.

Three hundreds warriors burnt at the Dropship and two hundreds and fifty Grounders buried in TonDC and God knows how many people entombed in Mount Weather and _Finn_... and the numbers keep rattling in her head, losing meaning, and Clarke feels no peace in the remembrance of the dead, just sickening guilt that makes her stomach shrivel until she grows almost unable to eat.

She looks at the pile of chopped up vegetables, and sees a cemetery.

 

 

She keeps coming back to Wells, though. And in the end, she focuses on him, because she doesn't know how to deal with the rest of it, and hell, he of all people deserves her unconditional attention, even if it is _postmortem_.

It comes to her one day when she's out gathering dry wood for the fire with Aquia. Suddenly she knows what she wants to do for Wells – and then she can't shake off the idea, and she starts devoting all her free time to this particular project.

It takes her an entire day to find the right material for the job – she settles on a slim plank of red-brown cedar wood. She starts with sawing off a regular square, which she flattens and polishes until she's satisfied with the result.

From the rest of the wood, she carves out thirty-two blocks, roughly equal in size, and then sets up on sculpting them with the chisel and knife that Aquia taught her how to use. It's hard work, harder than she thought, a little bit naively – more than once she cuts herself, and ends up tainting the wood with blood, which seems fitting anyway.

Every night, she sits on the bench in front of the warm fire, cutting and carving, rubbing her fingers on the rough grain taking shape in her hands. Aquia sits beside her, and doesn't ask her once about this new hobby.

Only when Clarke is done with the finishing paint does she raise a questioning eyebrow and look at Clarke with perplexity.

“So what is it you made, sky girl?”

“It's a chessboard”, Clarke explains. “Chess is a game I used to play with my best friend. His father taught us when we were kids.”

She feels blood thumping painfully in her temples as she picks up one piece.

“See this one, with the horse head?”

“Is this a horse? I thought it was a bear.”

Clarke ignores Aquia's teasing tone and rolls the smooth piece of wood between her fingers. “This is a knight. It was Well's favorite – he would always be so grumpy when he had to sacrifice them in order to win.”

She smiles and brings the knight to her lips. The wood is cool against her mouth when she kisses it, and there's a strange sadness blossoming between her ribs, bittersweet and tender.

“He would have loved this, I think. And I wanted to have something to remember him by.”

Aquia stays quiet for a few minutes, and then she picks up another piece.

“And what is this one? Some kind of bird?”

Clarke laughs. “It's called a _bishop_. It can only move diagonally on the board. Like that, see?”

She spends the rest of the night teaching a skeptical Aquia how to play chess.

 

 

This time, Clarke doesn't hide in Aquia's hut when they announce the Commander's imminent arrival. She even steps outside the kitchen, and stands in the cold between Mac and Willow to watch Lexa and her party of warriors ride imposingly into the village, back rigid and weapons firmly in hand.

The sight brings back memories of long walks alongside Lexa's army, of the rusty smell of war, of countless nights spent devising strategies in Lexa's tent. Clarke grits her teeth, and stares obstinately at the empty space in front of her. She feels Lexa's eyes glide on her, like an icy drop of water sliding down her back, before she addresses the villagers who have convened outside.

The Commander's speech is short enough, but since Clarke still can't understand more than a few words of Trigedasleng, she doesn't really pay attention, more concerned with the way Lexa's authoritative voice is rekindling forgotten anger in her chest. It's only when Lexa's warriors dismount and start erecting tents and setting up fires at the edge of the village that the sudden realization dawns on her.

“Oh no”, Clarke whispers to herself, earning a surprised glance from Mac.

It looks like Lexa is here to stay.

 

 

Later that night, Clarke has been pacing back and forth in front of the fire for a good couple of hours, face scrunched up in frustration, muttering to herself, when finally Aquia huffs an irritated breath and jumps to her feet. Before Clarke can even make sense of what's happening, she's been dragged out of the small hut, none too gently, by the scruff of her neck.

“You are driving me insane, Clarke!”, Aquia growls dangerously, and she points towards Lexa's camp. “Go tell the Commander whatever is eating at you, or don't bother coming back tonight!”

And with one last terrifying glare, she slams the door shut.

Clarke is _really_ tempted to stomp and pout for a second, but it's a cold night, and she knows there is no changing Aquia's decision once she's made up her mind, so she resigns herself and makes her way through the snow to the tents scattered at the village's border.

She spots Lexa almost immediately – the Commander is standing near a campfire, surrounded by her warriors, engaged in a lively conversation. The flames are casting ominous shadows on her skin.

When she sees Clarke advancing towards them, Lexa's body stiffens and her face goes blank and hard. She takes a step away from her companions, juts out her chin, and signals for Clarke to follow her in her tent.

Clarke keeps her eyes straight ahead as the group of warriors unabashedly study her when she walks past them. She lifts the heavy flap of fabric separating Lexa's quarters from the outside - and Lexa is waiting for her on her throne, legs arrogantly spread apart, looking for all the world like she's already bored with whatever Clarke has to say.

Clarke feels a humorless smile stretch her lips as she comes to a stop in front of the throne, because she's never been fooled by Lexa, and this whole spectacle of power and disinterest only manages to fuel the scornful anger burning right under her skin.

“Commander.”

She spits out Lexa's title like the hard stone of a fruit – it almost clinks against her teeth.

“Clarke. Did you want something?”, Lexa asks, imperturbable.

“Why are you here?”

“I explained earlier, weren't you listening? There's rumors of unrest nearby, talks of sedition from the Boat People – I'm here to make sure the Alliance holds.”

“No, I want the truth. Why did you come _here_? You could have set up camp anywhere, yet you chose the village where I live.”

“What do you want me to say, Clarke? That I came back for you?”, Lexa scoffs. “You think too highly of yourself, and too poorly of me.”

“I never think of you”, Clarke lies smoothly.

Lexa quirks an eyebrow. “Then what are you doing here?”

Clarke takes a few steps forward, slowly, staring unflinchingly at Lexa's eyes.

“I'm here to tell you to stay away from me. What we did last time was a mistake ; I was too angry to think straight. I don't know what you thought would happen if you came back, but there won't be a repeat performance. I won't _ever_ touch you again, you hear me?”

The words taste like iron in her mouth: cutting, dense – they leave just a hint of blood on her tongue.

Now, Lexa looks tired, and she pinches the bridge of her nose as she responds.

“There is no need to worry about this, Clarke. I won't come near you, you have my word.”, she sighs. “Now, if that's all...”

Clarke bristles at the easy dismissal, her pride a bit wounded. But, more importantly, something unpleasant has awoken in her stomach at the vulnerability hidden behind Lexa's lassitude. Something like guilt, something like rage, something coiling sinuously inside her ; a mess of swirling emotions going up, up, up her throat, and Clarke instinctively knows she needs to shut it off, quick, before she chokes on it.

Another step and her legs are pressed against Lexa's knees, and she grabs a fistful of her collar and brings their mouths together, harshly.

It's nothing like their first kiss. This one is all sharp teeth and push and pull – Clarke gripping Lexa's coat to keep her close, cruelly biting her lower lip to keep her compliant. Lexa lets out a whimper of surprise and pain at first, but then she opens her mouth and kisses back, with as much ferocity, her hands easily finding Clarke's waist and clutching at her jacket.

Clarke's heart is pounding violently against her ribcage, from adrenaline and lack of oxygen, but she doesn't stop kissing her, only tightens her grip on Lexa, one hand braced on the back of the throne. Eventually, it's Lexa who pushes her away – and oh, she's a vision, her eyes bright and wild, her mouth red and swollen from Clarke's savage teeth. Clarke is _hungry_ again, feels a spark of arousal burning between her legs when Lexa licks her lips tentatively.

“You said this was a mistake”, Lexa whispers. “Why are we doing this again, Clarke?”

“What, you don't want me?”, Clarke sniggers back, derisive, as she straddles Lexa and settles down on her lap.

“I don't want you to regret it”, Lexa says, tone soft, too soft. It makes Clarke reel back, and she grabs a handful of Lexa's brown locks and yanks viciously, drawing a pained hiss out of her.

“ _No_. You don't get to _care_ about what I do, about how I _feel_. You've lost that right when you left me to die, Lexa.”

She waits a minute to let that sink in, and then she lets go of Lexa's hair and takes a shaky breath. Lexa stays still, fingers hovering above Clarke's thighs.

“If we're doing this, it's on my terms. You don't talk about my _feelings_. You don't ask questions. Either you're in or you're out – it's your choice, Commander.”

She pauses, and chuckles, darkly. 'I know how much you like _choices_.”

Lexa grits her teeth. For a second, her eyes fill with something tormented and sad, a shadow of grief and longing. But then she nods, and lets her hands fall on Clarke's hips.

It feels like victory, so Clarke gives her most predatory grin to the defeated girl under her thighs.

 

 

Clarke doesn't waste any time and quickly peels off her jacket and her shirt. Lexa follows suit, twisting under Clarke's weight to get her coat off, then the long woolen garment underneath, and then, without even a pause, the elastic material binding her breasts – and Clarke feels her pulse fasten all of a sudden. It's been a while since she's been so close to a naked body. She swallows nervously, throat dry, eyes drinking in Lexa's bare skin, her stiffening dark nipples, the soft planes of her stomach, the fascinating lines of her tattoos.

Lexa is not self conscious, and doesn't seem to mind Clarke staring. She's impatient though, reaching behind Clarke to unclasp her bra, pressing her warm mouth to Clarke's collarbone. She nips at the pale skin – and the unexpected sting has Clarke squirming, grinding on Lexa's lap, urgently chasing down some delicious friction.

Lexa very softly slides the straps of Clarke's bra down her shoulders, like she's savoring the moment, her mouth dusting wet kisses on the newly revealed bare flesh, and Clarke is tempted to let her keep this lazy pace, but the hunger is back, gnawing at her, settling low in her stomach, and Lexa's touch is too tender to satisfy her.

So she pushes her away, gets rid of her bra, and pops open the button of her pants. Lexa tenses between her legs – her cheeks are tinged with pink, her lips parted, she looks _lovely_ \- and Clarke bends down to kiss her again, catches her plump lower lip between her teeth and bites her right on the spot where she just bit her minutes ago. This time she draws blood, and she immediately presses her mouth to Lexa's, swallowing her cry of pain, before she licks her way from her bloody lips to her jaw, down her neck. She remembers how it felt so good, to hold Lexa's throat in her hand, and she sinks her teeth at the pulse point and sucks hungrily– Lexa's hands dig in the bare skin of her hips, she buckles – her carotid artery is throbbing under Clarke's tongue.

“Clarke”, she gasps, a tiny, breathless sound.

“Shut up”, Clarke orders, voice vibrating against Lexa's warm skin, before she licks a wet trail from her neck to her ear, tasting salt and the smoky flavor of the camp fire.

Her tongue toys with the small fleshy earlobe as she blindly reaches for one of the hands still clawing at her hips. She takes hold of a slender wrist, and guides Lexa inside her pants.

“Shut up”, she repeats in Lexa's ear, “and make me come.”

Lexa mutters something in Trigedasleng, eyes tightly shut, and obediently slips her fingers in Clarke's underwear, bumping against her clit, stilling when she finds wetness. Clarke rolls her hips, rubbing herself on Lexa's hand – her whole world right now is the light press of Lexa's thumb on her clit, the pads of her fingers barely dipping into her, the warmth spreading in her lower stomach, in the back of her thighs, dancing up her spine. She can't think of anything else – and God, what a relief it is, when Lexa finally pushes into her – Clarke's lungs constrict and expand and she inhales sharply, as she arches into Lexa's body, starving for her touch.

“I hate you”, she whispers in Lexa's hair, “I hate you I hate you I hate you...” like a desperate mantra, a frantic prayer, while Lexa's fingers drive steadily into her, Lexa's sharp teeth close around her nipple, Lexa's nails rake into the skin of her shoulder blades, and Clarke is overwhelmed with pain and pleasure and Lexa, Lexa, Lexa....

When she comes, instead of her fist, she bites down on the tanned flesh of Lexa's shoulder, and she imagines it's Lexa's heart between her teeth.

 

 

They don't talk for days after that night, after Clarke slips out of the tent without a word, leaving Lexa slumped on her throne, silent and somber. They see each other of course ; it's hard to avoid someone in such a small place. They eat the same meals at the same time, and don't let their gaze wander toward each other. If they cross path in the central square, or in the woods near the village, Lexa is distant but polite, Clarke is cold and evasive.

For a while, Clarke is actually convinced it was the last time something like that would happen – and it's for the best, she tells herself. This cannot be healthy. Better to put an end to it now.

So she keeps her distance, and goes on with her days, as usual. She works in the kitchen, she goes fishing with Abel. She plays chess with Aquia. She focuses on her new life here, and stubbornly refuses to think of the past anymore, and that includes Lexa.

But she starts having nightmares again – just like those first couple of weeks when she left Camp Jaha, right after the Mountain. Except she doesn't dream about Mount Weather anymore, the damn lever, the melted bodies waiting for her in the great hall. She dreams about Finn. Every night, she wakes up gasping, sometimes even screaming, sheets damp with sweat, her right hand clenched around an imaginary knife.

Sometimes she dreams about fucking him – and it's even worse than dreaming about killing him.

She spends hours staring intently into the fire at night, trying to come up with a way to let him go, something similar to what she did for Wells – but her mind is blank ; and she keeps waking up in tears, nauseous from the memory of her knife shredding Finn's flesh, Raven's heart-wrenching cries echoing between her ears.

Until one night it dawns on her: she can't resolve this on her own, because she can't honor Finn's memory without Raven. If the boy's death is Clarke's, his life was always Raven's – despite their short-lived tryst on the ground. She can't think about Finn without thinking about Raven – and she can't think about Raven at all, still. Selfish, selfish, she berates herself, guilt tearing up her guts like a wild beast set loose, but there is nothing to be done. Raven is _too much_ for now and Clarke can't handle it.

In this moment – as she feels trapped and scared and full of self-loathing – she makes a split-second decision, and lets her feet take her to Lexa's tent.

They don't talk. Lexa takes one good look at Clarke, and nods quietly, like she knows exactly what Clarke needs – and it's probably the case, Clarke thinks, absently. Maybe Lexa needs the same thing, after all.

They kiss messily, in the middle of the tent, undressing each other with urgent fingers – and Lexa wipes at the tears stains on Clarke's cheeks, gently, before Clarke turns her around and bends her over the war table.

She fucks her just like that, hips slamming into Lexa's bare ass, fingers thrusting inside her without restraint, and Lexa takes all her anger and her pain and her grief with something akin to gluttony, back arching, pushing against Clarke, asking for _more_ in between moans of pleasure.

It almost makes Clarke come, the sight of her, it almost makes her want to give Lexa the orgasm she's so very clearly earned already, but this would be too easy – this is not what either of them want. So she makes her beg instead, for hours, before she gives her permission to come – and after Lexa does just that, shaking terribly and almost crying with the intensity of it, Clarke leaves, finally at peace.

And so it is, between them. When Clarke is overwhelmed with guilt and grief and anger, she goes to Lexa – it's never the other way around, never Lexa reaching out to her. They fuck, in Lexa's tent often, in the forest sometimes, – once, in the stables, while the other Grounders are having dinner in the common hut. Its rough, brutal, leaves them both with bruises and scratches and sore muscles.

They never talk.

 

 

It goes on like this, their silent routine of pain and pleasure, for three weeks – until Lexa goes to war again.

Clarke makes a point not to concern herself with the actual reason for Lexa's presence, the political trouble in the region. She's not a leader, not anyone important, not anyone who has to make decisions, not anymore, _not ever again_ – she simply doesn't want to know. While Lexa is having interminable strategy meetings in her tent and tense conversations at lunch with her generals, Clarke learns the art of salting and smoking freshly fished trouts under Mac's careful supervision. And if she sometimes catches herself looking at Lexa and her advisors talking conspiratorially around a campfire, she tells herself that the odd feeling at the back of her throat is relief she isn't part of this anymore, and nothing resembling nostalgia or curiosity.

The night before Lexa and her warriors leave for battle is the first night Clarke doesn't leave just after sex.

She's lying on Lexa's bed, naked and spent, the inside of her thighs still wet from her pleasure and covered in purple bite marks. Lexa is standing a few feet away from the bed, drinking water, her bare body glistening with sweat, brown hair sticking to her skin. Clarke looks at her and tries to imagine how she will look the next morning, wearing her armor and her war paint, deadly and destructive – and she feels disheartened and so, so tired.

“Can I sleep here tonight?”, she asks, on an impulse.

Lexa looks down at her, taken aback, and swallows thickly. For a moment, Clarke regrets asking, convinced that she's going to say no. But Lexa eventually nods in agreement – she blows out the few candles that were casting a soft light in the tent, and joins Clarke in the bed, throwing heavy furs on top of them both.

Clarke lies very still, in the darkness. They aren't touching, but she can still feel with frightening acuteness how _close_ Lexa is – the gentle ebb and flow of her breathing, the smell of her, earthy and sweet, the warmth still radiating from her body.

It feels intimate, in a way she wasn't expecting – it's also strange and awkward, and though she was exhausted just a minute ago, now it seems like sleep has deserted her entirely. She's so focused on the weirdness of it all that her heart almost misses a beat when Lexa suddenly speaks, her low voice cutting through the thick silence like a saw breaking through the ice.

“You should go back to your people, Clarke.”

Of all the things Lexa could have told her in this moment, this is the most unexpected – and Clarke actually feels absurdly _offended_ for a second.

“Why do you care, where I am?”

Lexa shifts next to her. “I think...”, she hesitates, and the rest of her sentence comes out hurried, like she's apprehensive about Clarke's reaction, “I think it would make it easier for you to deal with the aftermath of our last war.”

“I don't want to talk about any of that with you. Go to sleep”, Clarke retorts, but even to her ears her tone lacks in conviction.

“If you won't talk to me, then you should talk to someone else, someone who cares about you. And your people care about you, Clarke.”

Clarke stays silent, and Lexa adds, voice as soft as if she were trying to appease a wounded animal, “It would help with the things troubling you.”

“You know nothing about what I need.”

Lexa lets out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Of course I do, Clarke. Every warrior does, and most of all, those of us who have had to lead our people during wartime. What we do, what we see... I used to talk to Anya about these things, and Gustus too, and...”

She swallows and pauses abruptly, but the name of _Costia_ still echoes loudly in the quiet tent. Sadness blooms in Clarke's chest, the grief rooted deep inside her bones awakens at Lexa's words, and for the first time in months, Clarke _feels_ for someone else's tragedy.

“Who do you talk to now?”, she whispers to the darkness between them. Lexa doesn't answer, and for a while, the only sound in the tent is the double thumping of their heartbeats.

“I am the Commander, and my fate has always been to walk this path alone”, Lexa eventually says. “But you have people who share your burdens, Clarke, you have friends and family still.”

“Some things, I have to bear on my own”, Clarke counters. “And some things, I have to bear with _you_.”

A beat, then Lexa understands. “TonDC.”

She shifts again, turning on her side, facing Clarke, and when she speaks, Clarke feels her warm, damp breath on the bare skin of her shoulder.

“Do you regret it?”

“Don't you?”, Clarke shoots back quietly.

She feels Lexa staring at her for a long time – so long, that after a while, she begins to think she fell asleep. She's barely awake when Lexa finally answers, so quietly she's half sure she dreamed it.

“I don't know.”

 

 

Clarke wakes up before dawn, and quickly puts her clothes back on, before leaving the tent. She doesn't look at Lexa, still asleep, doesn't wait for her to wake up, doesn't say goodbye. She grabs some fishing gear in the common hut, and walks in the cold morning sunlight up to the frozen river, where she spends the whole day, alone with her thoughts.

When she comes back to the village, aching and starving, with two cleanly gutted fish in her game-bag, the Commander and her warriors are long gone.

On her way out of the kitchen, where she gives her bounty to a smiling Willow, she bumps into Abel, looking uncommonly morose. Feeling rather social, after a full day out by herself, Clarke coaxes the boy into sitting with her in Aquia's house, and telling her what's on his mind. It takes some effort before he admits, sullen-faced, arms crossed against his chest:

“I wanted to go fight with the Commander, but I wasn't allowed to join her troops. I am needed here to defend the village.”

Clarke gives him a surprised look.

“Why would anyone be disappointed _not_ to go to war?”

“I thought you would understand”, Abel grunts, staring stubbornly into the fire. “You're the leader of your people. And you're _wanheda_.”

“I'm what now?”

“ _Wanheda_ ”, he repeats patiently, used to explaining Trigedasleng words to her. “The Commander-of-Death. The one who destroyed the Mountain Men.”

Clarke's blood turns to ice in her veins, and she shakes her head, mouth dry, stomach clenching in disgust.

“Don't say that. Don't call me that.”

Abel glances at her, surprised, and shrugs. “It is the truth.”

“No”, Clarke growls, jaws locked in anger and sheer repulsion. “You have no idea what I've done, you have no idea what _war_ is even like...”

This time, Abel turns towards her, face hardened, and looks her straight in the eyes as he speaks, his tone steel-like.

“I am _trigedakru_. We all know what war is like.”

Clarke opens her mouth but he goes on before she can say anything. “Both my parents died in the Mountain, when I was still a baby. My brother was reaped and is now lost to me forever. I have lived my entire life knowing their fate could be my fate as well. _That_ is what war is like.”

He pauses, and Clarke puts a cautious hand on his shoulder, eyes already brimming with tears at his tale.

“The Mountain Men did not deserve to live”, he concludes, firmly. “Do not apologize for ending this war, Clarke of the Sky People.”

She can feel the tears slowly rolling on her cheeks now, one after the other, and her voice is wet when she protests, still. “There were children, Abel. I killed _children_.”

“Aquia had a daughter, you know. They shot her in the head one day, she was barely twelve years old”, Abel answers, in a whisper that resonates like a roar in Clarke's ears. “We have children too. What about them? Don't they deserve to be saved?”

Clarke can't talk after that, throat clogged with sorrow – but as she lets the tears flow freely, for the first time it actually feels like absolution.

 

 

Three days later, the Commander comes back from battle on a stretcher.

When Clarke sees Lexa lying pale and unconscious, hair matted with thick blood from a head wound, it's like a great wind slams right into her, leaving her with slightly unstable feet and the absolute certitude that she _has_ to do something.

“What happened to her?”, she asks one of the men carrying the stretcher. He looks at her silently, distrustful, until she grows impatient.

“I'm a healer! I can help her, but you have to tell me what's wrong!”

“The Commander was hit in the head and fell down from her horse. She has been in and out of consciousness since then”, one of Lexa's generals – one she remembers from the attack on Mount Weather - finally explains, and Clarke feels calmer than ever as she runs over everything she knows, letting the cogwheels gearing up again inside her brain.

“She probably has a concussion. We should bring her to a bed, I'd like to check her vitals just to be sure. My room will do”, she orders the warriors around her, and when they still hesitate, she makes her voice sound like scalding iron.

“Do you want to be responsible for your Commander's death? Then just _do as I say_!”

They finally comply, and carry Lexa to the small room in Aquia's hut. Just as they set her up on Clarke's mattress, Lexa comes back to herself. Staring hazily at Clarke, she starts muttering something incomprehensible.

“Don't talk”, Clarke orders sternly. “You're hurt. Let me see your face.”

She holds a candle near Lexa's head, checking her glossy eyes for any sign that could help her assess the gravity of her concussion.

“You care”, a stubborn Lexa repeats more clearly, voice thick and filled with wonder. “Why?”

Clarke puts down the candle on the ground, grabs a clean rag and a bucket of clean water, and exhales slowly as she begins to clean up Lexa's wound.

“Because you're not allowed to die before I've forgiven you.”

 

 

Clarke stays with Lexa the whole night, making sure she doesn't fall asleep again, checking her pulse every couple of hours. In the morning, they sit side by side on the bed, exhausted, back leaning against the wall, shoulders lightly touching.

“I'm leaving for Polis”, Lexa says abruptly, not looking at Clarke.

“When?”

“Today. There is a lot of crucial information I need to bring back to the leaders of the clans.”

She pauses and takes a long breath, and her voice carries just a hint of vulnerability when she speaks again. “The Sky People will be invited to discuss these matters, Clarke. Will you come with me?”

“No”, Clarke states immediately. She feels Lexa sink a little bit on herself, and softens the blow. “I'm sorry, but I'm not ready yet.”

Lexa hums thoughtfully.

“What will you tell my people? About me?”, Clarke asks after a beat, staring at Lexa's joined hands resting on her lap.

“Whatever you want.”

“Then you can tell them you saw me, but don't tell them where I am.”

“I wont”, she agrees easily. They fall silent again.

“ _Clarke_ ”, Lexa starts, and she sounds so hopeful it makes something ache in Clarke's chest. “After I'm done fulfilling my duties in Polis, I would like to... Can I come see you again?”

Clarke doesn't have to think before she answers, briefly grasping Lexa's hand in her own.

“You can.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I know it's been 84 years, but here is the last chapter... I hope you like it!

Slowly, almost without Clarke noticing, winter gives way to spring, and just like the snow and ice inexorably melt away, Clarke's grief starts to lose its sharp edges. Everything around her is _softening_ – the temperature turns mild, the sun grows warm on her bare skin, flocks of birds come back to the forest and fill the hills with chirping – and so, as if taking their cue from nature, Clarke's feelings too mellow inside her chest.

One morning, while she's helping Abel set up snare traps for small game in the forest, she's hit by the realization that she's still alive – more accurately, that she's _glad_ she's still alive, when just a few months ago, there was nothing but death on her mind.

She feels lighter.

 

 

With spring comes a flurry of new activities, mostly centered around farming, but Clarke doesn't get to jump head first into mindless work anymore. Her medical knowledge did not go unnoticed when she took care of Lexa's head wound, and the Grounders confront her about it during a village meeting, right after the Commander's army leaves for Polis.

“Healing is a crucial skill for the survival of all, sky girl”, one of the elders scolds her, tone disapproving. “Why did you hide this from us?”

Clarke blushes, and mumbles an embarrassed apology. She feels childish – it reminds her of the few times her parents caught her in a lie, and it seems impossible to explain, now, the urge that took her and made her want to sever any ties to her past.

Aquia rolls her eyes but comes to her rescue.

“What did you expect from a girl who ran away on her own just as winter fell upon us?”, she addresses the villagers. “The sky leader was clearly not in her right mind when she came to live with us.”

She sighs and adds, “That was thoughtless and immature of her, but we should not resent Clarke for this. As long as she doesn't deprive us of her knowledge from now on, of course.”

People gravely nod in agreement, and Clarke bites her tongue and casts Aquia a look that's half thankful, half offended.

So that's how Clarke finds herself promoted to official healer of a small and remote _trikru_ village. And the most surprising thing is that she doesn't mind at all. She actually takes her job quite seriously, and spends hours every day collecting medicinal herbs, macerating bark and roots, preparing balms and drying fresh leaves, boiling used bandages. She doesn't repair fishnets anymore, but she takes care of scratches and cuts and burns – and the feeling of accomplishment is the same.

And here is the truth: Clarke still looks at her hands and sees death – her hands plunging a knife into Atom's neck, tearing into Finn's guts, slicing open a throat, pulling the trigger, pushing a lever. It seems her hands are stained, permanently, crusted blood under her fingernails that she won't ever be able to wash away. But there is another truth: that her hands know how to set broken bones right and how to soothe a headache, how to apply salve on tender skin, how to cauterize a wound, how to save a life.

And Clarke remembers that she was never made only to destroy, and that knowledge lodges itself deep inside her heart, somewhere she had forgotten existed. It feels familiar, and reassuring: like she's coming back to herself, one small piece at a time.

Maybe spring really is the season of rebirth, like she learned on the Ark a long time ago. Maybe this is what _forgiveness_ feels like – acceptance, the lightness of life and heaviness of death mingled together in her fingertips.

Maybe she's growing up, maturing, like the fruits ripening under the warmth of the sun.

 

 

Her new responsibilities do not exempt her from helping out with various chores, though, especially now that there is so much to be done.

Which is how, one morning, against her will, Clarke is put on babysitting duty. The last spring frost has passed, and all the adults are spending the day planting corn in the fields west of the village, leaving behind a few warriors on guard duty - and the youngest children, which is where Clarke comes in. She's not exactly _thrilled_ with the situation – she hasn't much experience with kids, especially kids who barely speak English. Strike that, who barely know how to speak at all.

In fact, as soon as the dozen children are left in the central square under her supervision, Clarke is overwhelmed by the task. Three kids are already rolling around on the ground, throwing punches and yelling excitedly, their play fighting looking a little too realistic for Clarke's taste. Mac's youngest daughter, a baby not even two years old, has begun to wail, her tiny face all scrunched up and purple-red, and another toddler is eagerly putting dirt in his mouth.

So, she's not up to a great start.

She looks around, desperate for anyone, anything to help, and her eyes find the fire pit in the middle of the square, a circle of ashes and burnt pieces of wood, and that's when inspiration hits her. She picks up a half-burnt stick – the children aren't paying her any attention - and she takes a deep breath before she strides confidently toward the common hut and its limewashed walls.

Clarke presses the charred end of the wood against the white wall – and for a brief instant, she fumbles, her fingers shaky around the stick, a lump in her throat, because _what if she can't do this anymore_? But she pushes away her doubts, and starts drawing in loose wide strokes, smooth black lines slowly covering the surface in front of her.

Within a few minutes, she's garnered a quietly intrigued audience. And when it becomes apparent that she's drawing Aquia's face sporting an intentionally exaggerated frown, the kids start giggling and clapping, and she knows she just won them over.

One little girl grabs the hem of Clarke's shirt and points to herself with a toothy grin. It isn't hard to guess what she wants, and Clarke obliges her, quickly sketching a portrait of the girl. The children are _delighted_ , and Clarke chuckles when her miniature model hugs her leg tightly, gleefully appreciative. Then she gives her stick to a dark-haired boy and points to the fire pit – they get the idea and soon enough, there's a dozen kids eagerly doodling on the hut's walls, which allows Clarke to focus on the crying toddler. She picks her up and, trying to remember how her mom handled fussy babies, gently bounces her up and down until she stops crying, soothed by the slow repetitive movement.

When the villagers come back, exhausted and sunburned after a long day of work in the fields, they find a whole mess of drawings and scribbles on previously blank walls, a peacefully sleeping baby balanced on Clarke's hip, and an adoring band of children following Clarke's every step.

Clarke is feeling pretty good about herself, until she spots Aquia in the crowd, staring at her unflattering portrait with a scowl. She barely has time to hand his daughter to Mac, before Aquia is at her side, glaring. Clarke winces, and receives the now expected swift swat to the back of her head, but when she looks up there's a hint of laughter in Aquia's brown eyes.

“I didn't know you were an artist. You are full of surprises, sky girl!”

Clarke's first reaction is to smile, relieved that Aquia isn't actually mad at her, but then the words hit her: you are an artist. It's the first time she's been reminded of this since Dante, since she drew that map of Mount Weather ; and even then, she could not afford to think of it that way, not when her people's survival was at stake.

She glances at her hands, blackened with soot – and how validating, that she gets to think of herself as a _creator_ again, how wonderful, to find a small part of herself undamaged, unmarred, merely buried under the terrible things she's had to become.

 

 

The next day, Abel comes up to her as she's walking across the village, and gives her a leather-bound journal, not unlike the one Lincoln had, and three sticks of charcoal.

“You'll make better use of this than me. And we can't have you drawing on all our walls”, he says cheekily, with a nod towards the now defaced common hut. Clarke accepts the gift with a smile and a grateful hand on his forearm.

She starts with something pragmatic, using the journal as a rudimentary catalog to keep track of useful plants and their attributes, dedicating an entire afternoon to faithfully copying the shape of leaves and flowers and trees.

Soon she's also doodling in between sprained ankles and minor burns, filling the pages with rough drafts of the villagers, here the soft curve of Abel's smile, there Mac's tattooed hands, the intricacy of Willow's braids.

It's only when Clarke tries to draw inspiration from her memories that she comes face to face with a bitter truth: of the people she left behind, she can only draw the dead.

She outlines the silhouettes of Wells, Finn, even Atom whom she barely knew. She spends a quiet morning drawing Anya the way she first saw her, on that bridge, with warrior paint and a warrior's stance. She works hard on recreating her dad's face on paper, his kind eyes and easy smile.

But she tries to draw her mom and ends up crying and ruining the whole thing, wet tears smudging her lines. Her attempts at drawing her friends, Bellamy, Raven, Monty, Octavia, all fail – it's like she's paralyzed, rolling the stick of charcoal between her fingers, unable to take the first step, her mind awfully blank. She ends up tearing off those pages and throwing them in the fire.

She misses them, of course she misses them. And yet, as uneasy as she is to admit this to herself, Clarke is so, so _angry_ , still. She resents all of them for the weight she bears on her shoulders, for everything she had to do to save them, she is so _bitter_ that they put their faith in her – because then, what other choice did she have but to step up and fight for them. And it isn't fair, certainly, Clarke is very well aware of that - nothing about earth is fair, really - but that doesn't make her feelings less real.

So Clarke fills her journal with ghosts, and wonders if she will ever be ready to go home.

 

 

It’s still early spring when Lexa comes back, and this time, there is no decorum, no army, no war brewing at her heels - just the Commander and two of her guards slowly riding their horses into the village on a quiet evening.

Clarke is sitting on a bench in the square, Mac's youngest child dozing on her lap, deep in conversation with Aquia, and suddenly she lifts her head and there’s Lexa, perched on a horse, looking down at her. From the small smirk on Lexa's lips, Clarke gathers that the look on her face must be quite priceless, and she makes her best effort to school her expression. Other people have noticed the Commander's impromptu arrival, and soon the whole village is assembled in the square.

“I have come to show you all my gratitude, as our tradition demands”, Lexa proclaims, solemn as ever, to the small crowd surrounding her. “You have welcomed the Commander’s army in times of trouble. Now, in time of peace, the Commander pays her debt.”

There’s a few applause and people nod like this makes any sense at all, and Clarke just looks on, confused, as a few elders come to shake hands with Lexa and talk of the work to be done, of hunt parties and seeds to plant. Only once the Grounders have all scattered away, back in their houses, does Lexa walk toward Clarke, arms clasped behind her back.

“Hello, Clarke. It is good to see you again. I hope you've been well”, she says, a bit formally, like she’s memorized the words.

“How long are you here for?”, Clarke asks her instead of reciprocating the greeting.

“A few weeks, provided I am not needed elsewhere”, Lexa answers, and she blinks slowly.“Is this…”

She pauses and swallows, fingers nervously fidgeting with the hilt of her sword. “I hope you won’t find my presence a burden…”

“I’m not angry you’re here”, Clarke cuts her off, and relief lights Lexa’s eyes briefly, before silence settles between them, uncomfortably so. Hating Lexa was so easy, but _this_ , whatever it is, feels to Clarke like slippery ice under her feet – unstable, precarious - and her nerves are frayed at the possibility of falling.

“I saw some of your people in Polis”, Lexa starts again, cautious eyes fixed on Clarke's.

“Not now”, Clarke immediately retorts, and a wave of guilt rises at the back of her throat, but she's not ready for that particular conversation. The ruined drawings come to her mind - she exhales through her nose, crosses her arms against her chest, and will it all away.

Lexa is still standing in front of her, hands awkwardly wriggling by her belt. It's the most nervous Clarke has ever seen her, and it's surprisingly _endearing_ \- Clarke has to bite the inside of her cheeks to prevent her lips from twitching into a smile.

“I have to set up my tent”, Lexa eventually states, when the silence is starting to feel oppressive. “So this is goodnight, Clarke.”

“Goodnight, Lexa”, Clarke softly tells Lexa's back after she starts walking away from her.

 

 

Lexa spends the next day talking with every villager to see how she can help, asking about trades and roads, foraging and woodcutting, horses and corn - everyone, that is, except Clarke. They briefly see each other at lunch, but they barely exchange a few words before Lexa's attention is taken away by two young men excitedly asking her about Polis, and Clarke grows fidgety as the afternoon passes by.

This is not what she expected. She thinks back on the last time they talked, after Lexa's head injury - hushed words in the morning light, Lexa sitting tiredly on Clarke's bed, the brush of their shoulders. She thinks of Lexa's fingers on her skin, Lexa's tongue on her lips, and she _wants_ , something gnawing at her nerves like a starved beast.

So in the evening, when the Commander retires for the night, Clarke follows her.

"Clarke", Lexa exclaims, surprised, when she barges into her tent. "Is everything alright?"

"Why are you avoiding me?", Clarke asks like an accusation, arms crossed and chin raised a little defiantly, and she didn't mean to sound so angry but her tone is harsh and Lexa looks taken aback for a minute.

"It wasn't my intention to offend you, Clarke", she finally answers. "I'm sorry if I did."

"I'm not offended!", Clarke says, too loud, and she pinches the bridge of her nose, frustrated at her lack of control - as if something inside her chest wants to crawl free, wants to skip all this and latch onto Lexa's lips.

"I'm not offended", she repeats, with more composure. "It's just that you've been gone for so long, and today you spent time with everyone but me, and I..."

She stops, suddenly feeling foolish at the words swirling in her head, tries again, stumbles. "I just thought... I didn't expect to... I..."

Lexa is staring at her, eyebrow slightly raised in confusion, and Clarke can feel her neck growing warm under her gaze.

"I've just missed... what we do", she finally admits rather lamely, voice now so low it's almost a whisper, eyes locked on the ground.

When she looks up, there's a softness in Lexa's eyes that makes her ribs tighten painfully around her lungs.

"I've missed you too, Clarke", Lexa says, with a small smile lifting the corner of her lips, like it's the easiest thing to say. Clarke's heart is beating a little too fast - this new dynamic with Lexa is unsettling, and she just longs to feel _in control_ again. And if there's one situation where she's always been in control with Lexa, it's sex.

So she prowls towards Lexa, doesn't stop until they're toe to toe and she can slide her hands on Lexa's slim waist, fingers hooking in her leather belt. She pushes against her, forcing Lexa to walk backward until the back of her knees bump against the edge of her simple camp bed.

"Clarke, wait."

"I think I've waited long enough", Clarke growls, but she stops moving immediately. "What is it?"

Now it's Lexa's turn to look flustered. Her ears shine bright red, and her hands come to rest nervously on top of Clarke's fingers, still gripping at her belt.

"I brought something from Polis, for you", she starts, and swallows, and Clarke can't tear her eyes from the way her throat trembles, her eyes shine with something like bashfulness.

"I didn't want to presume that... you still wanted me in that way, but... I think you might enjoy it..."

Lexa lets the end of her sentence hang in the air, and her tone is half suggestive, half nervous - it sends chills down Clarke's spine.

"Show me", she says, voice low, releasing Lexa's belt.

Lexa walks to a burlap bag hanging from one side of the tent. She reaches inside and when she turns back to face Clarke, there's a _dildo_ with leather straps in her hands - Lexa's cheeks are tinged pink and she is studiously avoiding Clarke's eyes.

For a second, Clarke can't actually believe what she's seeing. And then she starts laughing, and it takes her by surprise, this joyful feeling bubbling so easily in her chest. The shadow of mortification on Lexa's face only makes her laugh harder.

"Is this what I think it is?", she asks, eventually, when her breathing has evened out, and Lexa's face has gone back to its normal color.

Lexa stays quiet as she gives her one slow nod in response, and just like that, Clarke is suddenly very aware of the arousal flaring between her legs.

"Well, if you want to fuck me with this, you better put it on."

At that, Lexa exhales shakily, and immediately starts undressing, carefully folding her clothes on one side of the bed. Clarke follows suit, a little more frantically. And then they stand naked, facing each other, and _god_ , Lexa is beautiful - the dark harness strapped to her thighs and hips a sharp contrast to her pale skin, echoing the black lines of the tattoos circling her arm, snaking around her left breast from where they mark the length of her back.

Lexa's eyes are hazy with desire, gliding greedily along Clarke's body. The burn of her gaze feels familiar - and yet, there is something oddly new stirring in Clarke, as they hungrily stare at each other, something suspiciously close to vulnerability, and Clarke is relieved when Lexa eventually moves to sit on the edge of her bed.

"Come here", Lexa says, voice husky. Clarke can't tell if it's a plea or a command - she complies anyway, determined to take back the upper hand, since so far this whole day hasn't gone at all like she's planned.

She settles on Lexa's lap, and closes a hand around the rubber dildo between Lexa's legs.

"So thoughtful of you to come back bearing gifts", she whispers close to her ear ; Lexa shivers and kisses her.

Clarke sighs in the kiss – she's truly missed this, the effortlessness of their connection when they touch, the solace of her tongue brushing against Lexa's soft lips, the comforting sting of Lexa's bruising hold on her hipbones.

She puts both hands on Lexa's shoulders to support herself, and starts slowly grinding on Lexa's bare thighs, moaning in Lexa's mouth when her clit rubs against the dildo with  _just_ the right amount of pressure. Lexa's hands dig in the soft flesh of Clarke's ass, and her breath hitches as Clarke's wetness drips on her skin.

When Lexa dips her head to take one nipple in her mouth, tongue swirling maddeningly slow, Clarke closes her eyes and reaches for the dildo, trying to guide it inside of her, but Lexa stills her with firm hands on her waist, voice teasingly professorial against Clarke's collarbone.

"Not so fast. Impatience is rarely rewarding, Clarke."

Clarke lets out a frustrated breath and shoves at her shoulders in retaliation. Lexa falls back on the bed with a small laugh, and despite herself, Clarke feels a pang of fondness at the sound.

Still, she gets off Lexa's lap and stands before her, ignoring her displeased groan at the loss of contact.

"I think I'm the one who's gonna be teaching the lesson tonight", Clarke tells her, and she feels a spark of excitement at the way Lexa's stomach visibly tenses at her words. "Stay on your back.”

She waits for Lexa to readjust herself so her whole body is lying on the bed, and then crawls back on top of her. Lexa's eyes widen when Clarke situates herself above the dildo, and then slowly sinks on it, knees bracketing Lexa's hips - she's wet enough that it doesn't hurt, but it's still bigger than what she's used to, and she pauses when she's taken the entire length of it inside her, relishing the stretch.

Beneath her, Lexa squirms, and the slight movement makes the dildo move, and - _oh_ , it sends a wave of pleasure in her lower stomach, and _that_ is what she was after all along.

Clarke starts rolling her hips, purposefully slow. The pressure builds deliciously, straining the muscles of her thighs as her eyes lock with Lexa's.

"You're not here to fuck me. You're here so I can fuck myself _on_ you. Got it?"

Lexa swallows thickly and nods, seemingly rendered speechless by the view. Her hands rise to meet Clarke's hips again, but Clarke bats them away with a smirk.

"No touching."

For a while, there is only the slow rise and fall of Clarke's hips, the wet sound of the dildo thrusting deep inside her, Lexa's ragged breathing. Until Clarke can't help the moan that escapes her lips, and Lexa's hands move to cup her ass like they have a will of their own. Clarke instantly stops what she's doing and catches hold of both her wrists, pinning them forcefully above Lexa's head.

“I said no touching”, she scolds. Her eyes fall on the pile of Lexa's discarded clothes, still folded on one side of the bed, and she keeps Lexa's arms pressed to the mattress with one hand as she reaches with the other to grab the sturdy belt – the dildo still inside her, her clit throbbing, her thighs slick and trembling.

Lexa's eyes are dark with arousal as she nods her assent, and when Clarke sits back up a minute later, her hands are tightly bound to the bed's iron frame. Clarke inhales sharply at the heady feeling of power, and she starts moving again, two fingers diving to rub messily at her clit. She knows she's going to come fast now – the sight of Lexa immobilized under her, whimpering and helpless, with no choice but to lay still and watch Clarke fuck herself - it's making her heart rate fasten like nothing else, and _fuck_ , she looks at Lexa's smooth skin and she wants to mark it. She digs her nails in Lexa's thighs, drawing blood, reveling in her surprised cry of pain. It's not enough, not nearly enough - there's an old sort of rage, suddenly rekindled, that burns beneath her skin, and she's craving to inflict pain, she wants to tear Lexa apart, she wants to make her _suffer_ , she...

She comes. She comes, and while everything around her dulls but the white hot burn of her pleasure, nothing can obscure the terrible truth - sharp and painful as a knife twisting in her flesh - that she so deeply wants to hurt Lexa.

When her orgasm washes away, she feels sick, skin damp with sweat, stomach churning with self-disgust. The air in the tent is too warm, Lexa is too close and too vulnerable – naked, at her mercy, eyes full of _devotion_ , and Clarke, nauseous, breathless, scrambles off the bed.

Lexa looks at her, hands still tied to the bed frame.

“Clarke?” she asks, hesitantly.

Clarke keeps her lips sealed, putting back her pants and her shirt with unsteady fingers. She rushes towards the tent's entrance, and finally Lexa seems to catch on.

“Clarke!”, she says, more forcefully this time. “What are you doing? Come back here and untie me!”

But Clarke is already gone.

 

 

She falls to her knees two feet away from Lexa's tent, and doubles over, gasping, choking – she feels dizzy and almost lightheaded with fear. Her eyes are burning with absent tears, and she presses her palms against her eyelids until she sees stars, and then she forces herself to take a deep breath. She knows the symptoms of a panic attack, and she knows there is nothing to do but wait it out.

So she clenches her fists and waits, empty and frustrated at herself. She was doing so much better, she had forgotten the violence still boiling in her stomach, the need to harm, to destroy, and she wants to cry, wants to scream _this is not who I am_.

She looks at her hands where the nails dug in her palms – the red crescent-shaped marks are just like the ones she left on Lexa's skin.

 

 

When she comes back inside the tent, Lexa is still naked and bound to the bed, struggling to free herself. Clarke doesn't say a word, just hurries to her side and unties her hands, smoothing her thumb on the red-raw skin of Lexa's wrists as she unfastens the belt– she glances down at her face but Lexa's eyes are resolutely stuck to the tent's ceiling, her mouth set in a thin line that betrays her anger.

As soon as her hands are released, Lexa gets rid of the dildo and puts some clothes on, moving almost mechanically, sharp and fast and efficient. And then she _marches_ towards Clarke, and the look on her face is downright _terrifying_ – Clarke hasn't felt intimidated by Lexa in a while, but now she finds herself stumbling as she precipitately backs away.

“What were you _thinking_?”, Lexa snarls, showing her teeth. “Anybody could have walked in. _You tied me up!_ ”

“Lexa, I'm so sorry...”

“This cannot ever happen again, Clarke. You can't just leave me defenseless...”

“Well, _you_ did.” The words are out before she can really process them, and it's Lexa's turn to take a step back, as shocked as if Clarke had just slapped her.

A minute of tense silence, and Lexa slowly sits back on the bed – everything in her posture screams defeat, resignation swiftly replacing anger in her eyes as she looks up at Clarke.

“So this is still punishment for the Mountain.”

“Isn't it what this whole thing's always been about?”, Clarke asks not unkindly, exhaustion seeping from her words. Lexa's jaw clenches but she acquiesces with a small dip of her chin, and Clarke joins her, sitting next to her on the mattress, elbows resting tiredly on her knees.

“I would have hurt you”, she says softly, and Lexa stiffens at her side. “Just now, when we were... I couldn't help but feel this _urge_ to hurt you, and not in a good way. That's why I left, and I'm so very sorry for that. I don't want to keep punishing you for Mount Weather”, she pauses and swallows, catching Lexa's eyes, desperate suddenly to make sure Lexa believes her, ”I don't want to do that to you, not anymore, but...”

Lexa waits, hands joined in her lap, stoic and patient as ever, and the truth spills out of Clarke's mouth, fresh and dangerous like melt-water overflowing a river's banks after winter.

“I don't know how to forgive you.”

“I understand”, Lexa sighs, before shifting to give Clarke a meaningful look. “It takes as long as it takes.”

Clarke smiles weakly at the reminder of past conversations.

“God, what a mess”, she mutters. Lexa hums noncommittally, and for a moment they sit in silence, not quite touching, not quite sure where they stand.

“I am, you know”, Lexa blurts out of the blue, voice small and sad. Clarke glances at her, but she's staring at the ground.

“What?”

“Sorry.”

Clarke shakes her head, even as her throat constricts at the apology. “No, you're not, Lexa. You told me yourself, you can't be sorry for the choice you made.”

“No, but I am sorry that this happened to us”, Lexa replies, and then, tone laced with weariness and heartache, “I’m sorry _I_ happened to you…”

She sounds so earnest, Clarke can't help the rush of affection spreading in her chest, and she has absolutely no idea how to handle it, so she lets her head fall on Lexa's shoulder, and settles for bitter honesty.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I was broken long before I met you.”

 

 

The next evening, Clarke is sitting outside alone when Aquia materializes at her side, so suddenly and quietly that Clarke, startled, leaps off her seat, and the only reason she doesn't fall on the ground is Aquia's strong hand flying to grab the collar of her shirt.

She's balancing two iron cups in her other hand, and she passes one to Clarke as they both sit back down on the bench.

“What's on your mind, Clarke?”

Clarke takes a long sip instead of answering. It's mead, brewed from wildflowers honey collected last summer, and she lets the sweet warmth settle in her stomach, familiar with the hint of bitterness on her tongue.

Aquia doesn't push – she rarely does. She drinks in silence, her back pressed to the cabin behind them, stretching her legs comfortably in front of her. After a beat, Clarke imitates her, and rests her head against the wooden wall as she looks up at the night sky.

“You know, my dad died up there, on the Ark”, she says, and takes another sip. “Turned out it was my mom's fault – she betrayed him. Betrayed us both, really.”

Aquia brings the cup to her lips, and waits for her to continue. Clarke stares at the stars, and thinks of her father's silent scream as he was sucked into the terrifying darkness of space.

“It took me a long time to forgive her. Sometimes, I'm not even sure I really did.”

“Betrayal is a hard thing to forgive”, Aquia comments, and she too seems lost in her thoughts. Clarke wonders what lies in her past, what kind of pain and heartbreak and loss – remembers Abel talking about a daughter – and her heart squeezes painfully in her chest.

“The Commander betrayed you”, Aquia states, voice carefully neutral. “Is this what's troubling you?”

Clarke feels her cheeks grow warm, and she rolls her eyes, playfully annoyed. “How do you do that? Always know what the problem is even though I haven't said a damn thing?”

“Old age is a blessing and a curse”, Aquia grumbles, and Clarke huffs out a small laugh, before she gives voice to the issue tormenting her.

“Why is forgiving people so difficult for me? It came so naturally to Wells. I wish I could just _feel_ it instead of over thinking everything...”

“Forgiveness isn't a feeling”, Aquia cuts her off, and Clarke frowns, confused, but she keeps quiet and swallows down her protests along with a gulp of alcohol.

“It isn't one single act either. It's a choice you have to make over and over until it becomes real.”

Clarke lets out a slow breath, and she recognizes the truth of Aquia's advice, but she can't help the frustration rising in her voice when she replies.

“Why does it have to be so _hard_ , though?”

Aquia lightly pats Clarke's thigh, the gesture both comforting and gently chastising. “You're a healer, Clarke. Just because a wound is difficult to heal, would you let it fester and worsen untouched?”

Clarke silently shakes her head, and Aquia concludes, “If your resentment of the Commander brings you pain, then you need to think of it as a wound in your mind, as deserving of your attention as a physical one would be.”

They hold gaze for a moment, and Clarke's heart swells with affection for the old woman. She clears her throat.

“ _Mochof_ ”, she says, seriously, but that doesn't seem enough to convey the scale of her gratitude, and she adds, “I never thanked you, Aquia, but I won't ever forget that I owe you more than my life. You kept me safe, and sane, during all those winter months, and I..”

Here she chokes a bit, words failing her, emotion clogging her throat, and she doesn't know what else there is to say so she just grips Aquia's hand a little too hard, and simply whispers again, “ _Mochof_.”

Aquia's strong calloused fingers clutch her own, briefly, acknowledging her words, accepting her thanks, before she turns her eyes back to the moonlit sky.

“You are a brave girl, Clarke, and you've done well, by your people and by mine. Your spirit... you remind me of a child who was once mine.” She sighs, and drinks from her cup. “May you be at peace, for as long as your fight goes on.”

Clarke leans against the house behind her and closes her eyes as she repeats, softly: “May you be at peace too, Aquia _kom Trigedakru_.”

 

 

Still reeling from their last encounter, Clarke accepts that she needs some time away from Lexa, at least until she's regained her footing. If Lexa feels hurt or disappointed by the sudden distance between them, she doesn't show it, doesn't protest, doesn't seek Clarke's company. _Ever the noble one_ , Clarke thinks, grateful and relieved and a little sad all at once.

In the days that follow, when she's not busy with her work, Clarke spends her time watching Lexa, studying her like she's a particularly complex game of chess. She watches Lexa deep in conversation with Mac, fingers linked behind her back, serious and attentive and every bit the Commander she remembers from the march on Mount Weather. She admires her posture, proud and regal, and doesn't miss the way Lexa sometimes stands like she's bearing an impossible weight, slender shoulders slumping when no one is looking.

(She recognizes the exhaustion in Lexa's eerie calmness – for she carries the same bone-deep tiredness in her limbs.)

She stares at Lexa training with Abel and other young warriors in the square, body lithe and shiny with sweat, and her stomach flips at Lexa's victorious smirk, at the joy lighting her face, making her look young and carefree for an instant.

And as she watches Lexa, she delves into herself with the meticulous attention of a surgeon, determined to make sense of the muddled feelings simmering in her chest. There is so much tenderness and longing underneath the dull achy sadness that she still feels for Lexa, so much fierce gratitude and trust mixed with an old anger that seems to cling on her skin like dirt.

 _Forgiveness is a choice_ , she tells herself, and every time her eyes find Lexa, she chooses.

 

 

Passivity has never suited Clarke well though, and eventually one evening she corners Lexa after dinner, just as she's exiting the common hall.

“Hey, I heard you were going on a hunt tomorrow.”

“I am”, Lexa says, cocking her head, curious.

“Can I come?”, Clarke asks bluntly, and she smiles a little when Lexa can only blink owlishly in surprise.

And that's how at dawn the next morning, Clarke finds herself following Lexa into the vast forest, the two of them alone, together.

(And what a show of trust that is.)

At first, Lexa is rigid and silent, directing Clarke with small gestures and sharp nods, lips thinly pressed together, hand closed tightly around her hunting spear. But soon the forest comes to life, and Clarke smiles and brushes Lexa's elbow when they briefly catch sight of a newborn fawn, and the tension coiled in Lexa's body loosen at last.

They spend a couple of hours on the look out for potential preys, discussing hunting methods in low murmurs, Lexa demonstrating to Clarke how to use a spear-thrower to increase her strength and speed. As they walk together, Lexa points at various plants and whispers their names, humming approvingly when Clarke spots tracks in the muddy ground or secret trails weaving through the woods.

Sometime in the late morning, their path leads them to a small mountain stream, and as they cross, Clarke trips on slippery rocks. She lands flat on her ass on the wet bank with an indignant yelp and Lexa lets out the tiniest laugh, hands immediately reaching up to hide her mouth - and Clarke thinks, with absolute clarity, _I could love you_.

“I thought mockery wasn't the product of a strong mind”, she grumbles instead, and Lexa's smile, when she helps her up, is warmer than the sun peeking through the thick foliage above them.

At dusk, they come back to the village empty-handed, and filled with a new kind of understanding.

 

 

Spending time with Lexa shouldn't be so _easy_ , but oh, it is, it's the easiest thing Clarke has ever allowed herself to do.

They sit together at breakfast now. Clarke finds out that Lexa despises the bitter herbal infusion most Grounders drink in the morning, and she teases the Commander about the inordinate amount of honey she pours in her cup.

She _teases_ the _Commander_. And Lexa just smiles a fond, almost tender smile, and keeps on eating her food, impassive, while people around them share glances that go from surprised at first, to knowing and amused within a few days.

They go on lazy strolls in the woods nearby when they have the time, and Clarke picks flowers and has to resist the impulse to weave them in Lexa's braids. They meet again in the evenings, sharing a drink with the villagers, listening to stories of old victories, past wars, mythical feats of heroism, and Lexa tells a few tales of the Commanders before her, to everybody's delight. _They really do love her_ , Clarke realizes, and the thought echoes the careful beating of her own heart.

Of course, they still have their own duties to perform, and sometimes Clarke has too many patients to visit, too many herbs to collect, and she doesn't see Lexa until the night has fallen – and then, Lexa has retreated in her tent, and Clarke won't go there just yet. Sometimes Lexa confers with her guards, or with the village elders, or with the riders who bring her news from Polis, and Clarke isn't privy to those conversations. A growing part of her wishes she were, though – and isn't _that_ a surprise, after all this time.

Then, on a sunny, breezy morning, all the villagers gather in the square to set up a dozen wooden tubs filled with hot soapy water, and huge woven baskets full to the brim with clothes and sheets. It's laundry day, Lexa explains when Clarke joins her near one of the washtubs, which is apparently a spring tradition in _trikru_ villages. Everybody is supposed to participate, everything else is put on hold for the day, and at night, they will celebrate with a feast – food, drinks, songs.

It's a good day. Kids are running around the square, laughing with glee whenever they get splashed, bringing new bars of soap and pouches of dried lavender when asked to do so, carrying the wet laundry away to hang on colorful ropes while it dries. Clarke stands opposite Lexa as they both scrub their share of clothes on the washing board, and soon their hands are red and wrinkled, the front of their shirts soaked.

Lexa pushes wet brown curls away from her face with the back of her hand, and _god_ , all Clarke wants is to kiss her.

It's a good day, and the act of _cleaning_ turns out to be quite cathartic. Maybe that's the point of having such a collective ritual, Clarke reflects as she watches stains and dirt disappear in the water – washing away the past, together. And when she looks up at Lexa standing in front of her, rubbing grease out of a kitchen rag, Clarke finally works up the courage to ask about her people.

“Sky Crew is doing well under the new alliance”, Lexa starts, and she pauses briefly, as if to judge Clarke's reaction. “Octavia has resumed her training as Indra's second. She will be a great warrior, someday, and she has proven her valor to me many times. Though she does not seem to like me very much.”

Clarke winces. “I can't imagine she will ever forgive either of us for the bombing of TonDC. But I'm glad she's okay.”

“She hasn't said anything to me”, Lexa says softly, “but I think she was glad to know you were okay as well.”

Clarke swallows at that and grips the edge of the washboard a little too forcefully. Lexa doesn't comment.

“The rest of your people I saw in Polis, when they visited to negotiate with my coalition. Marcus Kane attended the talks as your people's newly elected leader...”

Lexa pauses again, and this time there's a glint of mischief in her eyes when she looks up at Clarke. “We had quite an interesting talk about your electoral system, he and I. I will have to hear your thoughts about this someday.”

Clarke raises an eyebrow, and she knows Lexa is stalling, but still her lips curve into a smile at the playful tone, and they lock eyes for a minute, grinning at each other, before Lexa clears her throat.

“Your mother was there too, as well as Bellamy and Raven. They were all worried about you.”

And ah, there it is. Clarke's pulse quickens and she hides the sudden nervous tremor in her fingers by thrusting a new handful of dirty clothes in the water, before nodding at Lexa to go on.

And so Lexa tells her how Abby cried of relief at the news of her daughter's survival and then spent an entire day bombarding Lexa with questions about Clarke's health and safety and _is she eating well?_ and _make sure she gets enough sleep_ – and Clarke chuckles, rolling her eyes and smiling at the same time, because it's her mom and she feels so very loved suddenly.

Lexa tells her how Bellamy tried countless times to make Lexa reveal where Clarke was hiding, how he looked resigned and hurt when she refused, how he stood his ground, solid and confident during the negotiations, not only as _wanheda's_ trusted friend, but as the Mountain Warrior, a hero in his own right. She tells her how Raven came with a team of engineers and patiently explained to the twelve clans what she could build for them in Polis, talking of such wonders as running water and electricity, how Raven, still wary and distrustful of the Commander who tortured her and ordered the death of her only family, was nonetheless the first one to ask about Clarke's whereabouts, how Lexa pretended not to notice the tears in Raven's eyes when she heard Clarke was alive.

“They all miss you dearly”, Lexa finishes. The warm weight of her words settle in Clarke's chest, gently clearing out the last of her hesitation.

“Thank you. I think... I think I'm ready to go home.”

She doesn't even realize she's crying until Lexa raises a careful, careful hand to her face and brushes her tears away.

 

 

The feast is a loud and exuberant affair, filling the common hut with laughter and drunken singing and more food than Clarke has ever seen. She nibbles from her plate for a while, soaking in the sheer joy of the moment, tucking it safe inside her chest. And then she stands up and offers Lexa a hand, because there is something else she wants to celebrate – and because it's time, she can feel it in her bones.

Lexa looks up at her and tentatively takes her hand, and Clarke gives her a small, reassuring smile as she pulls her to her feet. They exit the room unnoticed, fingers linked loosely together.

Leaving the hut is like slipping underwater: the loud, tumultuous energy seems to fade, now muffled and distant and almost surreal. The rest of the village is eerily quiet in comparison, dotted with splashes of moon light, and Clarke's heart is beating steadily in her chest as she leads Lexa to Aquia's house.

And then the two of them are standing in Clarke's bedroom, bathed in the soft glow of candles, and Clarke takes Lexa's face in both hands and kisses her, slowly, tenderly, eyes fluttering closed, tasting wine and honey and salt on Lexa's lips.

Lexa is soft and delicate in her arms, her nose carefully brushing Clarke's, her hands coming to rest gently on Clarke's hips, even as she pushes against her until Clarke's back hits the door with a soft thump. Clarke moans and pants in Lexa's mouth, only breaking the kiss to sling her shirt over her head, removing her bra in the same breath. Lexa hooks her fingers in the waistband of Clarke's pants, waiting for a frantic nod of approval before she unbuckles the belt and pushes the material down Clarke's legs.

In a matter of seconds, Clarke is naked, shoulder-blades pressed against the cool wooden door, unabashedly staring at Lexa – Lexa, who trails warm hands on Clarke's sides, leaving goosebumps in her wake, who holds Clarke's breasts in her open palms with so much tenderness Clarke can't help but arch into her touch.

And then Lexa slides her hands under Clarke's ass and smoothly lifts her up, Clarke's ankles crossing instinctively at the small of her back. There is something about being _held_ that makes Clarke throb with arousal ; she links her fingers behind Lexa's neck and kisses her again, all rushed and wet and desperate this time, as Lexa carries her effortlessly to the bed.

“Why are you still wearing your clothes?”, Clarke says when Lexa sets her down on the edge of the mattress.

“Let me take care of you.”

And, well, if Clarke wasn't wet before, suffice it to say she sure is now. Her skin is tingling, heat pulsing in her lower belly - and it gets even worse, because Lexa sinks to her knees in front of her and Clarke forgets how to breathe for a full minute, lips parting in a strangled gasp.

“Do you trust me?” Lexa murmurs.

Lexa is looking straight at her, eyes wide and honest and betraying just a hint of vulnerability, and _god_. It's a loaded question, and it's the heart of the matter, isn't it, the infected wound that just wouldn't heal right for so long.

“Clarke?”, Lexa prompts her when Clarke stays silent, gently tapping Clarke's left knee, bringing her back to the moment. And Clarke, slowly, deliberately, takes Lexa's chin in her hand and whispers the words that they both need to hear.

“Yes. I trust you.”

“Good”, Lexa smiles. She cocks her head, and she still looks soft and sweet, but now there's determination in her gaze, and something akin to _smugness_ in the lifted corner of her upper lip.

“Spread you legs for me, Clarke.”

The tone of her voice, not quite an order but a directive nonetheless, has Clarke's cheeks burning red instantly, and both her hands jump to her sides and tighten around the rough woolen blanket underneath her. When she does open her legs, it feels like a challenge and like surrendering all at once.

Clarke has witnessed many beautiful things, many terrible things, but nothing can quite compare to the sight of Lexa on her knees between her legs, fingers splayed on her bare thighs, looking like she might just _devour_ her – looking like she _knows_ Clarke will let her. Lexa dips her head, pressing a barely-there kiss on Clarke's left knee, her hair falling over her shoulder in a curtain of soft waves that Clarke longs to touch, and she starts kissing her way up Clarke's leg, her pace measured and leisurely and driving Clarke insane before Lexa has even reached her clit.

For all her gentleness, though, Lexa is inflexible, an unyielding force set on making Clarke squirm and shudder and moan, a loving sort of implacability, and maybe Clarke shouldn't be so turned on by this, but Lexa's tongue is _relentless_ , tracing lazy patterns from her labia to her clit, and she falls back on her forearms, spine arching in pleasure, hips jerking in hope of more friction. Lexa's hands find her waist and ground her down on the bed, a firm weight anchoring her in place, and then her world is reduced to soft lips sucking at her clit, a warm tongue licking and flicking and lapping endlessly, intent on pushing her inexorably to the edge – just to stop right before she can come.

“I told you, Clarke. Impatience is rarely rewarding...”, Lexa teases, eyes crinkling, chin wet from Clarke's arousal.

“Oh, come on!”

“... but if you really want your release, maybe you should beg for it”, she finishes with a self-satisfied grin that is so attractive it's almost infuriating.

Clarke huffs and whines as Lexa goes back to her carefully torturous pace, but in the end she caves, whimpering a litany of “ _please_ ” until she comes, bucking and trembling and thrashing under Lexa's mouth for what seems like hours.

Afterwards, Lexa climbs onto the bed and gathers Clarke in her arms and strokes her hair as Clarke, boneless and sated and delightfully spent, burrows her head in the crook of Lexa's neck. They don't move for a while, until Clarke stirs and sleepily mumbles against Lexa's skin.

“Well, that was... Fuck. That was amazing. Let's do it again, soon.”

Lexa chuckles and tucks a wild blond curl behind Clarke's ear, but after a beat she shifts and starts to sit up, dislodging Clarke who rolls on her side of the bed with a displeased mewl.

“You don't have to go, Lexa”, Clarke says, looking at her through half-closed eyelids. “You're welcome to sleep here, if you want.”

Lexa freezes, surprised and just a bit awed, but, to Clarke's amusement, she doesn't need further convincing. Instead, she kisses the top of Clarke's head and quickly undresses, and then they both slip under the sheets.

And maybe if she were less drowsy, less content, Clarke would wonder at the overwhelming feeling of safety and comfort and belonging that Lexa's presence in her bed seems to produce inside her. But as it is, when a somewhat self-conscious Lexa curls on her side, Clarke doesn't even think twice before she drapes an arm around her, hand on Lexa's soft stomach, pressing their bodies as close together as possible. She buries her nose in Lexa's hair and falls asleep breathing in the smell of lavender and soap.

 

 

On a day that is more summer than spring, the air suffused with the kind of languid heat that makes every movement slow and difficult, Clarke and Lexa are lounging on the river bank, mildly sheltered from the early afternoon sun by the shade of a large oak, clad only in loose undergarments.

That morning, Lexa announced to the villagers that her time here had come to an end, and that she would be leaving for Polis the next day - and Clarke, as she listened in silence, made a decision of her own.

And now here they are, lying side by side on the grass, Clarke's thumb caressing the inside of Lexa's wrist, and they have not said a word yet. Finally, Clarke turns her head towards Lexa, licks her lips, and asks the question that has been on her mind for several hours.

“Will you take me back to my people tomorrow?”

Lexa angles her head so she can look into Clarke's eyes, gaze piercing, inquisitive, but she doesn't voice her concerns, just answers, quietly. “If that is your wish, Clarke.”

Silence surrounds them again, and Clarke lets her eyes wander to the river flowing peacefully at their feet. A dragonfly is drifting in wild loops above the water. Drops of sweat are beading on her brow, and she wipes them off with the back of her hand.

“So what will happen now?”, Lexa says. Her eyes are closed, but Clarke doesn't miss the tension in her shoulders, in her neck.

“What do you mean?”

“I know you, Clarke. You may not want to lead them anymore, but you will, if the need arises.”

Clarke shrugs. “Maybe. All I know is, for now I belong with them. As you belong to your people.”

She rises to her elbow, and starts rubbing light fingertips on Lexa's face, easing the lines of worry, brushing a finger down Lexa's nose, along the intricate shell of her ear.

Lexa's eyes are still closed when she takes a deep breath and speaks again, her voice slightly wavering. “There is nothing we can change about who we are, and the things we need to do. And as much as I lo.. as much as I care about you, Clarke, I cannot promise you anything.”

Lexa opens her eyes, finally, and Clarke's heart thumps painfully against her ribcage, because Lexa looks strikingly like she's struggling not to cry. “What I mean to say, Clarke, is that I will understand if this was just... an interlude, a stolen moment, a temporary situation for you and I...”

“Lexa”, Clarke interrupts her, and she cradles Lexa's cheek in her palm. “When I left my people last winter, I didn't choose to end up here, and I certainly didn't choose to cross path with you again. But I did, and the important part of this is: now I choose you.”

It feels good to say this, to let the words fall and color the world around them. Clarke smiles, happy and strong and quite certain of what she wants.

“I told you once that we deserve more than just surviving, and I meant it. Now we have the rest of our lives to figure this out, and who can tell what will happen to us? But Lexa, what is happening right now between us, it's real, and it's worth a try."

When she's done talking, Clarke realizes tears are streaming down Lexa's face and on her fingers, Lexa's eyelashes wet and glistening, her nose tinged pink – Lexa swallows and whispers, in a voice small and full of wonder:

“I spent so long thinking you were forever lost to me, Clarke.”

And Lexa keeps crying quietly, and Clarke kisses her wet cheeks, and lets her.

 

 

 

The next morning comes, and from her seat on Lexa's horse Clarke takes a final look around her, at the villagers assembled to see her go, at the place that was her home for almost half a year. She's said her goodbyes the night before, she's hugged and embraced and kissed the cheeks of confused children, she's given her thanks and made sure they knew where to find her if they needed a healer, she's promised to visit, she's cried.

Now she checks that the small bag at her side is securely tied to the saddle – it contains Wells' chess board and her journal, the only things she could not part with. The solid presence of Lexa behind her is a welcome source of comfort and reassurance.

She looks at her friends, and waves one last time at the people who took her in when she didn't think she could live anymore.

Sometimes it takes a village to save a girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading, and commenting and leaving kudos, it means a lot to me! 
> 
> I'm toying with the idea of a sequel to this fic, because I'm very attached to Clarke, and to her relationship with Lexa in this universe. And because I need more stories with happy endings, after the disaster that is season 3 so far... So let me know if you'd be interested in more!


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